


Heal Me Up Again

by 3EyedLady



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: I wanted to write one where Carl is fine, I'm so sorry, POV Third Person, Sadness, Supernatural Elements, The dark part of my brain told me to write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 10:54:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13973547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3EyedLady/pseuds/3EyedLady
Summary: (A voice at the back of his mind says if you don’t do it now, you’ll Turn, you don’t want that, you can’t break their hearts any further.  You just can’t.  Another voice says that you don’t want to die.)





	Heal Me Up Again

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so I am not over Carl’s death. At all. I am enraged over the decision to kill off Carl, especially since in the comics, he has a large role in bringing the Whisperers to war against the other survivors. I'm not gonna say anything else, but it just seems like to me the show is going too far off trajectory, and it seems that it's going too far away from the original source material. Anyways, enjoy.

The bite burns.  Every time he moves, he feels it, his own personal hellfire inside his body.  He sighs, and puts down the pencil. There it is again; a slight movement at the corner of his eye.  Every time he tries to get a better look at it, it disappears again. Maybe it’s a hallucination caused by the fever?  Giving his head a shake, he picks up the pencil and continues to write.

***

The hallucination continues throughout the day, growing in frequency.  Nothing more than mere wisps of light on the edge of his vision. (He never sees it in direct sunlight.)  He doesn’t bother trying to get a better look at it, though. He just smiles and plays with Judith, finger painting and taking a photo.  

 

(He doesn’t notice how she turns and stares at a corner of the room, as if in awe.  He doesn’t notice the faint wisp of light at the edge of the photo. If one were to stare at it close enough, one could make out an arm, a hand, and too long fingers)  

***

It burns.  Oh god it burns.  He feels it spreading through his body, liquid fire in his veins.  Is this punishment? Is this a hell of his own making, forcing his friends and family to watch him suffer as he slowly wastes into a walking corpse?  Is this his eternal punishment for all the deaths by his hand? He’s scared, he’s so scared, but he can’t show it, can’t do that to Dad and Michonne and Judith and Siddiq he has to be calm for them he has to be _strong_ for them and he wonders if this is what it’s like to die and why he’s hallucinating and thinks that dying wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t think he was going crazy.  

***

It’s time.  He knows it.  He cried all he could.  He made his peace with friends, family, and even his enemy.  He got to play with Judith one last time. All he needs to do now is pull the trigger.  

 

Before he does, he looks up and gasps.  Kneeling above him is a figure. They are ethereal, glowing in the darkness of the church, with transparent pale-blue skin, long white hair that moves like it is flowing in water, and large, blank eyes.  Their eyes remind him of the moon.

 

They have a humanoid body, but based on appearance alone, he knows that they aren’t.  He doesn’t know whether they’re an angel, a ghost, or just a figment of his imagination; on some instinctual level, he knows they’re here for him.  They take his head in their hands (with their long tapering fingers that end in points) and cradles it in their lap.

 

“Are you here for me?”  

 

The creature nods once.  

 

He rests the gun against his chest.  The cool metal does nothing to assuage the burning in his bones.  Just when he thought he couldn’t cry anymore, his eyes fill with tears.  He looks up.

 

“Will it hurt?”  

 

(A childish question, yes, but he finds that he doesn’t really care.)  

 

The creature merely shrugs, having no mouth to answer him with.  

 

He takes a shuddering breath.  The creature wipes away a stray tear that escaped his eyes.  (A voice at the back of his mind says if you don’t do it now, you’ll Turn, you don’t want that, you can’t break their hearts any further.  You just can’t. Another voice says that you don’t want to die.) He takes a deep breath, picks up the gun, places it against his forehead, pulls the trigger, and lets go.  

 

(In his final few moments of painful consciousness, he hears the creature humming a song he once knew, sees their long, long hair cocooning him, and feels tears from their eyes falling upon his cheeks as they cradle him.  The tears feel cold against his skin.

 

It’s nice.)  


End file.
